


Christmas Cruelties (Or, "The Gathering Of Everyone I Don't Consider A Waste of Space")

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Ficlet, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Platonic Romance, Sherlock Secret Santa, ace!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there is to be one month that is the cruellest, it has to be December.</p><p>Sherlock reacts with appropriate scorn to Christmas, and John reacts with appropriate patience; it's hard to decide who comes out better for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Cruelties (Or, "The Gathering Of Everyone I Don't Consider A Waste of Space")

**Author's Note:**

> For claramata in the Sherlock Secret Santa fic exchange. This might very well be the last fic I ever write, but I enjoyed it all the same.

Some said that April was the cruellest month. Sherlock, having no great love for poetry to begin with, disputed that. The entire concept was ridiculously illogical to begin with, but… If there was to be one month that was crueller than all the rest, it had to be December. Gifts to show you ‘cared’ about the people around you, family gatherings that he was forced to attend, strange relatives from America (“He’s a  _lawyer_ , dear,”)… It was all so terribly – not to overuse the word –  _dull_. Nobody seemed to care about the history of the celebration, either, which he found to be incredibly stupid.

Normally, he didn’t keep up with recent events, like knowing which month it was, and so he was surprised to learn that today was the first of the month laden with excessive cruelties.

“It’s December, today,” John said, as though it were something of great merit. He then looked up from the paper at Sherlock, sprawled upside down on the couch, feet resting on the wall. “Mrs Hudson’s going to murder you.”

“Interesting connection,” he replied. The rush of blood to his head was heady, his heartbeat throbbing in his ears as his feet and calves began to tingle, fine needles pricking his skin… “There is no correlation between violent crime rates and the seasons – March was the best for those this year – but – with all the downpours – like today – any criminal worth his salt – would be tucked up indoors somewh—” With a grunt, he flopped off the couch and onto the floor, unable to think above the roaring in his head.

John, predictably, snorted. “Was that another experiment? Let me guess… How long you could hold that position before making an arse of yourself?”

“Of course not,” he scoffed, rising to his feet in what  _he_  would have described as a graceful movement, and what John called an awkward stumble. “I’m—”

“Bored, yeah, I got it the first five hundred times.”

Sherlock spent two minutes trying to see whether his scowl could burn a hole through John’s newspaper. Results of experiment disappointing. Conclusion: he was not possessed of sudden superpowers. He ghosted over to his chair and arranged himself delicately (read, from John’s view: slumped into it, legs dangling precariously off the left arm).

“Why should it interest me?” he asked suddenly.

“What?”

Sometimes, Sherlock forgot that John so easily discarded important conversations. It had been frustrating trying to discuss things they’d first talked about eight hours ago, which were still fresh in Sherlock’s mind, and completely erased from John’s. “It being December. Why is that of import?”

John shrugged:  _trying for nonchalance, slight twitch in damaged shoulder, discharged, war memories, no, discard, irrelevant, discharged in September, obviously important month, why, need more data._  “I dunno. End of the year? Christmas?”

“Christmas?”

“Oh, god—don’t tell me you’ve deleted it.”

“You have such a simple view of my hard-drive,” he muttered. “I haven’t  _deleted_  it; if I tried to, it would be pushed back in by the endless stream of marketing and Mummy’s card every year firmly reminding me. But it’s hardly relevant.”

“Alright,” said John. He said nothing more for a few minutes. And a few minutes after that. After thirty four minutes, it appeared that he thought the conversation concluded. Sherlock chose tactfully not to remind him, remembering just in time that John became incredibly childish if they broached a subject too often.

So, as they were standing in line at Tescos two days later, Sherlock having reluctantly dressed to make the arduous journey, he chose to bring it up. “Why did you tell me that it was the first?” he asked—nay, demanded.

“What the—hell are you—” John mouthed numbers as he counted out the bill. “Do you’ve a tenner?” He checked his wallet, to find only three fifty pound notes, and replied in the negative. “Sod it, I’ll just use your card.”

They exited the store, John carrying the bulk of the shopping and Sherlock rummaging through his only bag to check what prizes it contained:  _milk, butter, condoms_  – “Oh, shit,” John said, as he pulled them out, “sorry, fuck, that’s habit, I know you don’t…” –  _bread, Thai Red Curry sauce packet, headphones, Twining’s tea box, ah, Chamomile, trying out some of his therapist’s cures for insomnia_ …

“…you know they won’t work anyway, it’s melatonin that helps you to sleep, I’d expect a _doctor_  to know better, really, John—” Sherlock halted in his stream of automatic rebukes, and glared at his blogger, as the man tried to feign innocence by hailing a cab. “You’re distracting me.”

The sigh merely confirmed his compliance in this scheme. “Sherlock, what the hell are you on about, really?” Even if the words belied it.

“Why did you tell me it was the first?”

“Christ, that again?” He still had to adapt to John’s unwillingness to pick over topics. Mycroft had always been a keen participant, despite his other, egregious—Oh.  _Oh._  “Look, I’m really sorry that you’re bored, right, but I seriously didn’t mean—”

“Are you leaving?” John nearly dropped the shopping.

“ _What?_ ”

“For family purposes,” Sherlock amended. “For Christmas. Families gather around Christmas time, apparently, normal ones, at least, so I conclude that you must be intending to spend time with your parents…” He cocked his head. “No, parents died a few years ago – your sister, then.” For a moment, John looked as though he were about to say something, before his face changed into that annoying expression Sherlock couldn’t analyse. “That’s why you reminded me, perhaps an unconscious move on your part, so I wouldn’t invite you over to meet my family, well, not really any chance of that – you’d hate our Christmases, completely dull affairs, relatives  _everywhere_. I suppose you also wanted to make sure she hasn’t fallen off the proverbial wagon again, people do, around Christmas time, especially in the same year as marriage break-ups…”

“Sherlock.” He sounded both amused and exasperated; not exactly an uncommon combination, but when combined with  _that_  look, it was irritating. “You bloody clot.”

And  _that_ particular insult to his intelligence. It was frustrating to be able to recognise a pattern of behaviour and not be able to  _understand_  it. Like dealing with Mycroft again – he did  _not_  want to think about Mycroft more than once a day. “What?” he snapped.

“I’m not going to my sisters’, for one.”

“Well,” he said quickly (read: defensively), “you didn’t give me much data to go on, what was I to—”

“And  _secondly_ , you  _massive_ ,  _incredible_  clot, I have another family I’d much rather spend Christmas with.”

Silence fell heavily for a moment. Despite John’s efforts, no cab pulled over. Sherlock’s face was a study in contorted confusion; after a few minutes of no snappy retort, John thought he might’ve actually broken him.

Finally, he shook himself out of whatever data error his mind had experienced, and asked calmly, “Are you adopted?”

“Oh, for—” John rolled his eyes, laughing in spite of himself. “You, you idiot. You, and Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, and Lestrade, and… well, not really Mycroft, but I wouldn’t say no if you invited him, I guess.”

“We’re not inviting him,” he said automatically. “Inviting people to  _what?_  Oh. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, and  _no_.”

“You done?”

“I can’t believe you—a  _Christmas party_?”

John sighed, in his  _amused-and-not-but-there’s-something-else-I’m-missing_  way again. “Get us a cab, will you? Anyway, you don’t have to do anything – just sit there and, I dunno, try not to overdo it with the sarcasm.”

“I don’t  _overdo—_ ”

“Yes, you do. Normal couples have parties, you know.”

“Normal couples have  _sex_ , John,” Sherlock shot back, much to the scandal of an older gentleman passing them. “I don’t think what normal couples do is of much use to us.”

John smiled forcefully at the stunned pedestrian, who fled very quickly, then muttered, “Can we not – do the whole sex thing in public?”

“Don’t be silly, John; we don’t even do it in private. And we’re not having a Christmas party.”

“Sherlock.”

“ _John_ ,” he mimicked irritably, switching the bag to drape over his left arm, all the better to cross them. Body language was important in these matters, he’d read.

“For the love of—Sherlock, we’re going to have a party.”

“Whenever I go to a party, someone invariably dies.”

“That,” John said firmly, “is not going to happen, because this will be a fantastic, homicide-free, no-stress party.”

“What’s the fun in that?”

“God, I can’t believe you sometimes.”

“I’m not a mythical creature.”

“Just get a bloody cab.”

—

Despite Sherlock’s adamant refusal to take part in any activities that related to  _The Gathering of Everyone I Don’t Consider A Waste of Space_ , as he liked to call it, John seemed completely undeterred. Even when Sherlock built a fort around the Christmas tree to hold it hostage – “For science, John,  _obviously.”_  He didn’t so much as blink when Sherlock started nailing eyelids to a post for another experiment – it was all very odd. A head in the fridge elicited no change in the humming of Christmas carols, and Sherlock began to despair. It was evident that more drastic measures would need to be taken. He refused to give in to such an asinine holiday as  _Christmas_.

Twenty-six hours later, and with six days to the event, he gave in, becoming almost inhumanely enthusiastic about following John out for shopping. John was quietly thrilled, and extremely suspicious.

[In hindsight, he really shouldn’t have been surprised that it ended in a police escort.](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/19december)


End file.
